The World We Set On Fire
by Cap'n Pirate Monkey
Summary: Post-colonisation. Mulder has to travel to Newfoundland to seek shelter from the colonists. But he can't do it alone. Enter Alex Krycek, who seems to know more about the threat than he is letting on. Written for XF Big Bang 2010


_Watch the sun  
As it crawls across a final time  
And it feels like  
Like it was a friend.  
It is watching us  
And the world we set on fire  
Do you wonder  
If it feels the same? _

"_In This Twilight"_

_Nine Inch Nails_

_It cannot be underestimated just how inconvenient the lack of easy communication has proven to be; now the world has come to a halt. We reach for cell phones that no longer function, pine for the casual simplicity of a text message. I remind myself to call you, forgetting that telephones have become a relic overnight, just a sad little souvenir of what we have lost._

_I don't know what things are like where you are, Scully, but here in Virginia the world has moved on and left us standing in the dust like abandoned children. And I'm not ashamed to say it scares me. This is not the world I knew._

_I want to believe that I'll find you when I arrive in Canada. I want to believe it more than anything else. But in the absence of contact, how can I? I feel like Schrödinger. And there is the irony; now that I have been proven right, I find it harder than ever to believe without empirical evidence. I blame you for that._

_We've been on the road for hours now. Newfoundland feels like the other side of the world. And I fear the emptiness of arriving, after this long wait, to find that you are not there._

_One week earlier_

_Alexandria, Virginia_

Mulder's stomach turns as the shadows coalesce and diffuse like living things around the tall figure, his eyes adjusting too slowly to the sudden burst of torchlight. He is met immediately with a Cheshire cat smirk, disembodied and floating in the semi-darkness. Then facial features begin to form. Green eyes that sneer even as they smile.

"Not him," he blurts on reflex.

Skinner sighs, crosses his arms; the dark room is unseasonably warm and the December sunshine filters in through pinprick cracks in the plaster. "He's all we have," he says, weary.

Mulder stares at Krycek in disbelief. It surprises him that he is still alive; this rat of a man, who should have died so many times before once again cheating death in the most unjust of circumstances. Krycek says nothing, but that infuriating grin speaks volumes. He's enjoying Mulder's discomfort.

"I'd rather go alone," Mulder tells Skinner, aware of how petulant he sounds. There is a battered old rucksack at his feet with the few possessions he feels compelled to take with him – an assortment of useless things, photographs, news clippings. He has a gun he hopes he won't have to use. And, most importantly, he has a working knowledge of how these aliens function; he isn't sure what Krycek can offer in return, but it can't be worth enduring his company for the duration.

"That's not an option." Skinner's voice is firm, almost paternal. "You know how vitally important it is to get you to Newfoundland in one piece. If there was anyone else I could send, I would. But..." he casts a brief, disdainful glance at Krycek "Mulder, you know the situation. Everyone else is dead or wounded or too damn scared."

"You think he's going to get me to Canada in one piece?" Mulder jabs an accusatory finger at Krycek, who remains utterly impassive. "Come on, Skinner. Have you forgotten everything he's done?"

"He's given me his word," Skinner responds. "Any other time his word wouldn't be worth a damn. But things have changed, Mulder. You know that."

Mulder can feel white hot fury bubbling beneath the skin. The situation is absurd beyond belief and he is sorely tempted to tell Skinner he can stick his help, that he'll find his own damn way to Newfoundland. But he is constrained by his own sense of guilt. After all this time, he still feels like he owes Skinner. He clenches his fists ineffectually, feeling helpless and angry.

A short moment of tense silence passes. Skinner stares imploringly at Mulder, his bare forearms criss-crossed with half healed wounds. The fight to stay hidden from the colonists had not been easy. There are still humans who willingly sell their own kin to the aliens, promised a reprieve that is inevitably proven a lie. For the first time, Mulder thinks Skinner looks old, a little fragile around the edges.

Krycek makes a sudden movement, startling them both. Mulder's hand instinctively goes straight to his gun.

"I don't particularly want your company, Mulder," Krycek says. His voice is unnervingly quiet. "But given the circumstances, I think we ought to try to get along." His eyes glint coldly in the dark, predatory. Mulder grits his teeth. He does not want to 'get along'. He wants to punch Alex Krycek's teeth in.

He doesn't let on. "What happens to him when we reach Newfoundland?" he asks, jabbing an impersonal thumb at the man in the corner.

"He goes his own way, and we don't kill him."

Mulder feels faintly betrayed. He knows so little about Newfoundland besides the fact that Skinner has promised he'll find Scully there. Up until now, he has trusted Skinner to make it all work. With Krycek thrown into the mix, though, he's not so sure any more.

He is silent for a long time. Skinner fidgets anxiously with his glasses, his eyes flickering between the two men either side of him. Krycek is silent and moves only to rub his eyes with his good hand. His motions are slow and languorous, like a lizard. He seems to be relishing the tension, please at the conflict he has created.

Mulder looks Krycek in the eyes. Despite the strain he has endured these past months, he is determined not to show even a hint of anger. He can't trust Krycek, no matter what Skinner promises – the man is pathologically incapable of decency, a born liar, and although he has a lot of faith in Skinner, he is beginning to think the man has finally flipped.

"If he as much as blinks at the wrong time, I won't hesitate," Mulder says, knowing even as he speaks that he can't bring himself to kill Krycek.

Skinner jerks a nod, the sharp movement betraying his nerves. His jaw is set, his face carefully impassive.

Mulder takes one last look at Krycek, who is staring up at the blacked-out windows, apparently uninterested in his half-hearted threats. The last time they worked together, Krycek had double-crossed him and ended up losing an arm. Perhaps karma at work. Krycek's false limb is poorly camouflaged beneath his black clothes, an unnatural right-angle branding him forever. Mulder thinks it's the least he deserves.

"Okay," Mulder says through clenched teeth, turning to Skinner. "But not for you and absolutely not for _him. _For Scully."

_Present Day_

The hours pass without conversation. Mulder drives at a ridiculous speed. It's the kind of drive he has always secretly wished for; endless stretches of silent highway passing in a colourless blur, the kind of drive you only see on car commercials. The only other vehicles lay abandoned at the roadside, some still smouldering as they pass. They mark their positions with vaporous trails of smoke, thin grey signatures against the cold blue sky.

Krycek sits in the passenger seat, staring out at the withered landscapes they are passing. He seems unperturbed by Mulder's dogged insistence that he be the one to drive, although Mulder has made it very clear that it is because he does not trust him. He supposes Krycek had expected as much.

They leave Baltimore at what the car's clock says is four pm. The buildings reach up into an empty sky, their windows blank. The September sky is already flushed pink as the sun crawls towards the horizon. Mulder tries not to be disturbed by how still the city is now. A single Burger King wrapper cartwheels across the street, carried on a breeze. Garbage piles up in the gutters and storm drains. Cars sit in the middle of roads, abandoned mid-journey. It is one of the few cities they have passed that has not been razed to the ground; one might assume that it had been peaceably abandoned, a collective decision by its citizens, were it not for the great patches of scorched black tarmac pockmarking the roads, the burst windows and scattered bricks from buildings caught in the crossfire. Though they are avoiding the main city, Mulder catches glimpse of a downed helicopter among the debris, propellers twisted and broken like limbs. He can't help but find it bleakly funny, this ineffectual last resort now a mere tombstone.

"Wonder what happened to the bodies?" Mulder remarks, mostly to himself. In the corner of his eye, he sees Krycek give a cursory nod. He is sitting with one leg drawn up to his chest, resting his chin on his knee as if tired. It makes him look oddly childish.

"They take them away," he says. He has not spoken in hours. His voice is gravelly with lack of use. "Test them. They want to know how we tick."

Mulder raises an eyebrow at this. "Who told you that?" he asks, knowing as he speaks that Krycek won't answer; his sources have always been a mystery and Mulder does not expect the likelihood that his sources are all long dead will make him any more forthcoming.

True to form, Krycek does not reply; his mouth is twisted into that peculiar smirk he adopts when he thinks he has the upper hand. Despite being on the move constantly, he looks remarkably well kept and clean shaven. Mulder is somewhat surprised at his vanity; it wasn't so long ago, he recalls, that he sported a bad haircut and questionable taste in ties.

"We stop when it gets dark," Krycek says. "They're most active at night."

"They're active all the time," Mulder responds matter-of-factly, irritated by Krycek's sudden authoritative tone.

"Different types." Krycek turns his head so he is facing Mulder. "The gestated ones. Those are the ones you need to concern yourself with."

Mulder raises an eyebrow but does not look at him; the road ahead stretches out like a grey ribbon. "Krycek. If there's something you're keeping from me..."

"You're the expert," Krycek interrupts, and Mulder thinks he sounds almost triumphant. "You're supposed to have all the information."

"I have theories," Mulder counters. "And if you insist on being spectacularly unhelpful, they're going to remain theories."

Krycek turns his gaze back to the silent remains of Baltimore, watching intently as it passes by in a blur of motion. The self-satisfied smirk is back. Mulder struggles with the urge to slam on the brakes and kick him out of the car. He is a little surprised that he has managed to restrain himself this long. Krycek has been baiting him relentlessly since stepping so dramatically out of the shadows back in Skinner's office, feeding him snippets of information, implications that he knows more than he is letting on. The worst thing about Krycek is not knowing whether or not he is telling the truth or whether the morsels he keeps dangling are as false as his smirk.

"All you need to know," Krycek says, "is that we are vulnerable when we're not moving."

"Why?" Road signs indicate they are driving towards Delaware; Mulder is hoping to skirt Philadelphia and be in New York by tomorrow. There is a battered road atlas by Krycek's feet. Somehow, it seems quaint now. The topography so lovingly detailed within has changed forever. Highways disappear into deep black craters. Towns have become rudimentary pyramids of rubble and dust.

Krycek sighs. He reclines in the passenger seat, stretching his long limbs as best he can in the cramped space. "The viral apocalypse," he says, a phrase Mulder has heard before. "Except it's not a virus any more but a living, breathing entity. It's grown since Tunguska." He pauses, Mulder thinks, for effect; they can both remember the dank stench of the gulag all too vividly. Mulder shudders involuntarily as he remembers the cold pressure of the chicken wire pushing down on his skin, the wet slither of the oil creature moving languidly up his torso, the visceral horror of being invaded. "It uses the body as a host. Gestates within days. You ever see _Aliens?_"

"Didn't have you down as a moviegoer." He is only half joking; he is mildly surprised that Krycek might actually have hobbies outside of shooting people. Krycek is not telling him anything he does not already know. He has seen for himself the end result of the gestation.

Krycek ignores his wisecrack. "After a time, they develop fully. You've seen what they become. The morphers. That's the final form; that's when they're the most dangerous."

"And you're saying they only come out at night?" Baltimore trails into the distance now, the skyscrapers grasping at the darkening sky like fingers.

There is a long pause. The low rumble of the engine suddenly seems too loud. Mulder pushes his foot down on the accelerator, watching as the speedometer needle swings past 100mph. Suddenly, it seems imperative to make good distance before darkness falls.

"That's not what I'm saying," Krycek replies. His cockiness dissipates. What remains is a cold certainty. "What I'm telling you is that when it gets dark, you won't see them coming."

_Two months earlier_

_Alexandria, Virginia_

Mulder stands at the window of his apartment, looking out onto the darkened street. It will not be long before he has to leave. Skinner has decided it is no longer safe; that the rumours of impending invasion are rapidly becoming reality. There is no way of telling how long it will be before the world around him changes irreversibly, and that is why they cannot stay any longer. It is time to go into hiding.

"What're you going to do with the fish?" Scully's voice floats in from the kitchen. He can smell the instant coffee she sometimes drinks, an earthy, bitter scent he never liked. He has grown fond of it, though; he associates it with winter nights and Scully wrapped in an Afghan like a Christmas present.

"I was thinking of having them stuffed," he says, amused at Scully's relentless practicality.

Scully peeps her head around the doorway, quirking an eyebrow as she does when she cannot tell whether or not he is joking. "You're not serious?"

"Perfectly serious." His poker face is impeccable; she shakes her head, grinning even as she drinks her coffee. "I'm going to have them put on keychains. Give one to you, one to Skinner. A memento."

"Fish keychain, huh?" Scully says; her eyes sparkle with mischief. "I can put it next to the Apollo 11 one you gave me. Start a collection."

Mulder sits on the edge of the sofa. The old springs complain under his weight, and he realises he'll miss the sound of it. Sitting down, he is almost the same height as Scully, who is diminutive in her worn blue loafers. "You still have that?"

"Sure I do," Scully reaches into the pocket of her jeans; her keys jangle tunelessly. The little disc hangs, lonely next to the small cluster of keys. "It was a birthday present. One of the oddest I've ever had, but..."

She is cut off mid-sentence; Mulder rises from his seat, engulfs her and her keychain and her coffee in a great bear hug. She shrieks in protest, holding her coffee mug at arm's length. Hot little droplets spatter onto the carpet, a constellation of stains that will soon be forgotten. He presses a kiss to the top of her head and her protests turn to gentle laughter. The keys fall to the floor.

"You never fail to amaze me, Scully," he says, tilting her chin so her cool blue eyes meet his gaze. She is not usually so pliant. His long fingers envelop her hand. They stand like that for a moment, a brief snapshot of domestic bliss so contrary to the darkening skies and desperate paranoia of the world outside. For the shortest of instants, the world stops.

Darkness falls as they enter New Jersey, but they push on, through the deserted streets of Trenton and on to Princeton, which seems almost picturesque in its abandonment. The car, almost drained of gas, sputters to an unsteady halt outside the university. In the absence of street lights, the pale Gothic buildings are ominous in their cold intricacy.

Mulder steps out of the car and into the cold night air, zipping his jacket to the throat. Krycek watches him for a short while before daring to open the door, watching for lights in the sky, for shadows in the trees. He sees neither. Cautiously, he opens the car door and slips out, wincing involuntarily at the sound his boots make on the cracked concrete, a sound like dry bones snapping underfoot. He feels his breath catch in his throat as he awaits the ambush from the undergrowth. There is none. Mulder continues ahead, oblivious.

Krycek remembers once telling Marita that it is the small sounds that warn us we're about to die: the gentle crush of grass, the low rhythm of a man's breathing. It is his acute sense of mistrust that has kept him alive this long. Marita had laughed at the idea and called him paranoid.

The university chapel looms like a sentinel ahead of them. The stained glass windows are empty black holes, the glass scattered like silver glitter across the grass. Krycek squints as his eyes adjust to the gloom.

There is another, taller building standing a few yards from the chapel. A Gothic spire stabs at the empty sky, ornate and beautiful in a severe kind of way. There is a beaten-up motorbike parked outside, festooned with dried, dying flowers. A yellow light glows from one of the low-level windows.

"Survivors?" Mulder questions aloud. Krycek shrugs. The idea isn't so insane. The invasion had been sudden and violent, a smothering blanket of infected bees preceding a tsunami from the skies, but it had been days before the cities were destroyed, and in that time there had been a smart few who moved underground, in basements and subway tunnels. Hadn't he been one of them? He had known in advance, of course, and he is no stranger to hiding in small dark spaces, but it seems arrogant, even for him, to assume that nobody else would have the same idea.

Mulder moves with caution towards the entrance, his rucksack slung over his shoulder. His movements are exaggeratedly slow. The door is already open. Krycek follows him, the cold metal of his gun reassuring beneath his palm. Mulder signals for Krycek to ready his weapon, slipping his own gun from the holster at his hip.

"Hello?" Mulder shouts. Krycek cringes; his voice carries on the night air, amplified by the cold stone. For a long moment there is no other sound but the dying echo of Mulder's voice. Krycek gives Mulder a questioning look, his gun raised almost to eye level.

As the last echo fades into nothing, there is a faint reply. "Who's there?" The voice is female, querulous and uncertain, so faint as to almost go unheard. Mulder's eyes meet Krycek's and he nods, lowering his gun.

"We're not going to hurt you," Mulder responds. Krycek lets out a snort of derision. The words are ridiculous and trite but somehow the only reasonable response.

After a short time, a cluster of faces appear in the doorway. Three people, gathered in what Krycek supposes must be a show of solidarity. They line up in height order like mismatched Russian dolls with identical stern expressions. There is a weak light emanating from inside the building.

"What do you want?" This time, it is a different woman who speaks. She is short and plump with severe features. She stands a little way ahead of the others. Krycek notices she is clutching an iron pipe in her left hand.

"Fox Mulder, FBI." Mulder flips his FBI badge, and the woman raises a sceptical eyebrow, as if judging whether such a thing is at all relevant now. The other woman, who is pale and somewhat bovine, cranes her long neck upwards, peering with large liquid eyes at Mulder's I.D.

"What about him?" The short woman inclines her head towards Krycek. He is momentarily disarmed by her gumption and finds himself affecting a pseudo-friendly smile, which disappears as soon as he catches up with it. She eyes him with well-practised suspicion.

"Alex Krycek. On this occasion, he's one of the good guys." Krycek looks sharply at Mulder, who shrugs almost apologetically. The woman looks unconvinced, but nods slightly and steps aside. The pale woman and the third person, a fine-boned man with strikingly blue eyes, step back with almost choreographed timing. Krycek notices the short woman's blouse is soaked with dark crimson, blooming haphazardly outwards like a flower.

"I'm Sylvia," the short woman offers a pudgy hand to Mulder, who shakes it uncertainly. "You can put those guns away, G-Men. We're no threat."

Krycek stares at her for a moment. Something is wrong with this picture. Something is plucking at his nerves and prickling beneath his skin. He does not like the way the woman has accepted their presence so quickly, as if she had been expecting them. He places the gun between his belt and waistband. It lies hidden beneath the worn black leather of his coat.

"This is Leigh." She gestures to the pale woman, who waves timidly. Her fine blonde hair is cropped close to her head and sticks out in wayward tufts, a pale gold corona around a white moon face. "And that's Mike." The thin man walks ahead of them. Krycek has already assessed him as no threat. He is permanently hunched over and has not once looked either of them in the eye. He is a proverbial rabbit in headlights.

Sylvia closes the door behind them, barring it shut with the iron pipe. "I suppose you'd be able to explain what the hell is going on outside, huh?" She speaks with the tired resignation of one who has seen a little too much. The look she gives Mulder is both imploring and jaded: _don't bullshit me, G-Man, you owe me the truth._

They walk. The room, which must have served in a previous life as a library, is peppered with candles. They bleed clear wax onto the glossy wood floor. Sylvia perches on the edge of a desk, looking expectantly up at them.

"What do you know already?" Mulder asks.

Sylvia shrugs. "I know New Jersey ain't what it used to be," she says dryly. "I know some of them got glowsticks that'll set you on fire, and some of them can rip a man to shreds in seconds. Beyond that, not much. How long have you boys known about this?"

"Just about my whole career," Mulder replies.

Sylvia responds with a knowing nod. "And you never thought to tell us normal folk, huh?" There is no malice in her tone. "Well, we don't have much to spare but you're welcome to join the party."

Krycek watches as Mulder gratefully accepts a can of Coke from Leigh, who offers a tight-lipped smile.

Sylvia turns her attention from Mulder to him. Her black eyes scan him unabashedly. "Doesn't this one speak?" she asks.

Krycek scowls and turns away. He does not enjoy small talk, much less when it is at his expense. She quickly loses interest in him when it becomes apparent that he does not want to play.

"It started with the bees, didn't it?" Sylvia asks, although her tone suggests that she already knows this is the case. As Mulder launches into FBI mode he gradually zones out from the conversation, their voices becoming so much white noise, a backdrop to his own musings.

He breathes in the stale air. It tastes of burnt wick and dust. Mike, the thin man, is skulking around somewhere near the back of the room, his bare feet soft against the floor. He paces up and down like a caged animal, occasionally checking the windows. Of the survivors, Mike seems to be the only one who is genuinely afraid. In a perverse way, this makes Krycek like him more.

He does not want to hear Mulder doing his Close Encounters bit. He hates the way Mulder seems to take so much pleasure out of explaining how he was right all along, how nobody listened to him until it was too late. It's not the barely-concealed arrogance that bothers him – after all, he is himself well versed in the delicate art of conceit. No, it's that he has seen what lies beneath that tide of pseudo-scientific garbage, that raft of cobbled-together theories. Glimpses of something desperate, something needful. It is as if Mulder is starting to fall apart on the inside, and this Cassandra act is just a band aid.

His silence on the drive had been practical in nature. He has been observing Mulder, gleaning him for scraps of information. But there is something Mulder is keeping from him, and he does not like being on the periphery.

Then again, he thinks, it's not like he is without secrets of his own. He knows Mulder is acutely concerned about what his motives are, what he stands to gain from this tired little excursion to the limits of this dying country. There is a certain power in remaining a mystery, particularly to curious types like Fox Mulder, who has built a career and a reputation on knowing what others do not.

He hasn't mentioned Scully. Krycek knows very little about the FBI woman as a person, except that she does not like him, and that she is perfectly justified in feeling that way. Mulder's silence on the subject seems forced, though, as if he is afraid of spilling an unpleasant secret.

"...long way left to go, huh?" Sylvia is looking directly at him and he realises, with slight embarrassment, that she has been attempting conversation with him. He mutters something incoherent as an apology.

"You travel a lot? I mean, back when things were, uh, normal?" He senses Sylvia is not ordinarily a people person. Nonetheless, it seems plain that she has become a sort of de-facto leader to the other two, perhaps because she is older than them by a clear twenty years, and because her demeanour is that of someone firmly grounded in reality. Her tight black curls are shot with gunmetal grey.

He shrugs. How is he meant to answer that? _As an international double agent and assassin I spent a lot of time on the move. It's the best way to avoid being captured and killed._ He swallows down the sarcasm.

"Guess so." _Fuck_, he thinks, _why is everyone pretending that this is a completely normal situation?_

Blessedly, Mulder chooses that moment to re-enter the conversation. "Krycek," he says. "We'll stay here until sunrise. It's as safe as we're going to get." From her perch on the edge of the desk, Sylvia raises an unimpressed eyebrow at his vote of confidence.

"Fine by me," Krycek agrees. It's as close to amiable as he has been on this trip so far. It isn't fine by him, though. Not truthfully. Despite the dangers that lurk in the darkness outside, skulking like bogeymen in a children's nightmare, he feels ill at ease corralled into this room with people he does not know.

Sylvia leads them to their makeshift camp-site, a cluster of chairs and benches with blankets strewn messily across the floor. At first glance, it looks like the world's strangest slumber party. Leigh is already wrapped in a blanket, peering at them sleepily. A few feet away, there is a man laid out on one of the benches. He is shivering despite the layers of blankets.

"That's Jim." Sylvia sits on the foot of his makeshift bed, resting one maternal hand on the sick man's chest. "He was attacked while trying to escape. Lucky for him, I used to be a nurse."

"How bad is he?" Mulder asks. He peers over at the man, who breaks into a sudden fit of violent shuddering. He is so white his skin is almost translucent, his mouth a vivid red slash. Purple veins web beneath the surface like a network.

Sylvia clucks her tongue, placing her hands on her hips. There is something cartoon about her, a stout, matronly woman with an unfalteringly serious expression, and a seeming inability to identify properly with people who are not sick or dying. She is everything Krycek hates about hospitals.

"When, not if," Sylvia says. "Worst case of shock I've ever seen, and so much blood loss. We just don't have the facilities to help him."

Krycek observes quietly as Sylvia tends to Jim, cleaning the ragged wounds on his chest and arms with a maternal gentleness. His fingertips itch relentlessly. As the light grows dim and the room gradually grows quiet, he resolves that he will not sleep tonight.

_One month earlier_

_Cape Breton, Nova Scotia_

Scully swears under her breath as the Jeep hits yet another bump in the road. She feels her stomach reposition itself somewhere behind her left lung as they fly three feet in the air, coming to a violent halt as they hit solid ground again. Her bones judder audibly.

"Sorry," Agent Hastings yells from the front seat. "Damn hard to drive around here. I've never seen this kind of snow in November before."

Agent Di Fazio, a solid-built woman who is clinging to her seatbelt for dear life, gives her a grim smile.

The Jeep springs into reverse. Lumps of grey snow slush spatter loudly across the windows. The engine roars as if enraged. Scully swallows down a wave of nausea as the Jeep moves jerkily forward, swaying back and forth like a dinghy in a storm. She adds Nova Scotia in winter to her mental list of places she never wants to return to, along with Chaney, Texas, and Maine.

She watches, a little woozily, as Agent Di Fazio jabs at her cellphone with clumsy fingers. They have had no coverage since crossing the border. She doesn't know whether this is normal, or whether it's an indication that civilisation is crumbling, that the aliens are winning. In some ways she is grateful; she does not have to hear the blow-by-blow account of the world being torn to shreds.

She shifts uncomfortably in her seat. Leaving Mulder behind was a terrible idea, she thinks, wringing her hands. And although she knows it is necessary for him to be there for a while longer, that Skinner needs his encyclopaedic knowledge of the invaders if there is any hope of mounting a resistance, there is a selfish little part of her that thinks she needs Mulder more. That part of her resents Skinner for sending her up here, for 'getting her to safety' as if she were a child, even though she understands his reasoning.

She imagines a disaster-movie style trail of destruction erupting in their wake, and wonders how accurate her vision might be. It is not as if she can turn on the TV news and get a full update.

The last time she spoke to Mulder, two days ago, he had told her quite solemnly that the majority of the evacuations had been too late, that the colonists had made headway in all the major cities and were quickly securing the East Coast. He had spoken in a hushed tone, as if mindful that others might be listening.

"They didn't stand a chance, Scully. They had no idea it was coming." He had sounded almost mournful. Scully had supposed it was partly guilt.

"Nobody would have believed it." She had been adamant at the time, and still was. What could they have done? News of early colonization had travelled over the grapevine and landed in Mulder's in-tray, lost among tales of Wendigos and ancient curses. The predicted date was in three months time. The memo had been scrawled in capital letters on the back of a Taco Bell napkin, unsigned. Anyone else would have thrown it straight into the garbage can, but somehow Mulder had been entranced by its amateurish presentation. She had reminded him later, as they were packing her things away in a battered old suitcase, that a Taco Bell napkin was not a great basis on which to recommend evacuation of every major city in the US.

"Stay safe, Mulder." She had been afraid for him then, hiding like a trapped animal, knowing that sooner or later he would have to make a run for it. They had lingered on the phone a while longer, both seeking comfort in the crackling faraway voice of the other, as if this most tenuous of connections was a talisman against the threat circling them like vultures around a dying man.

"Fifteen days," he had said, and Scully had been ticking them off in her mind, the days that would pass before he could join her here, in this place where nothing grows in the deep of winter and colonists fear to tread. This place where blinding white snow goes on for mile after wretched mile.

The Jeep pitches violently to the left and for a terrifying moment Scully finds herself almost at a twenty degree angle, her seatbelt straining to keep her in place. Agonisingly slowly, it eases back into position, but the tyres are whirring uselessly in the snow, kicking up great plumes of powder. They are stuck.

Agent Hastings leans over. He looks ridiculous in his blue earmuffs and deerstalker hat, like an explosion at a jumble sale. "I'm sorry ladies," he says. "Looks like we're on foot for the rest of the way."

Agent Di Fazio groans loudly as Hastings pushes open the door, struggling against the wall of snow. He steps out of the car and immediately sinks to his calves. The two women glance at each other with something akin to panic.

"Come on, we've got a boat to catch!" Agent Hastings says cheerfully, waving his arm as they reluctantly unbuckle their seatbelts. At that precise moment, Scully would dearly love to wrap her cold hands around his neck and squeeze hard. One glance at Agent Di Fazio as her feet are engulfed by the snow reassures her that she is not the only one.

It is a cliché of horror films, the lone, disembodied voice singing in the darkness, but it jolts Krycek awake nonetheless, momentarily seizing him with irrational panic. Somewhere in the charcoal grey, someone is singing 'Abide With Me'. Her voice is a reedy, off-key soprano, not at all beautiful but somehow appropriate; it seems to Krycek that very little is beautiful now.

He shifts, feeling his muscles wrench painfully as he moves. Despite his best attempts to stay alert, he has fallen asleep sitting up, head resting on his hand, a parody of Rodin's Thinker. There is a dull ache at the base of his neck and he winces aloud as he turns his head, seeking the source of the sound.

Just perceptible in the gloom is the shadowy form of Sylvia. She holds a guttering candle in one hand and it casts her profile in amber, softening her hard features. She is singing softly but clearly. "Come not in terrors, as the King of kings, but kind and good, with healing in thy wings..."

It is a full minute before he realises she is singing to Jim.

"He wasn't strong enough," she says quietly, startling him. "But it's better like this. He's in the hands of the Lord now."

Krycek does not sympathise with what he considers maudlin affectations. He cannot envision a life that is not worth fighting tooth and nail for, a life worth wasting. It is not that he thinks life is precious. As far as he is concerned, there is no other life but this one, no verdant paradise or divine benefactor waiting after the last heartbeat. To waste it seems an unforgivable offence.

He is about to respond in a suitably unsympathetic manner when Sylvia lets out an unearthly shriek. He recoils instinctively at the falsetto pitch, feeling his gut constrict in surprise and fear. Immediately he is on his feet, his gun drawn, an automatic motion.

From somewhere behind him comes Mulder's voice, still thick with sleep. "What the hell was that?" Someone strikes a match. It splutters into life, illuminating the room with a faint golden glow.

Jim's body is moving. His midsection is pulling and undulating, his torso rising clear off the bench as if seized by convulsions. Sylvia seems paralysed, staring dumbly at the spectacle with rapt horror. Her mouth is a wide black O of surprise.

For an agonising moment, nobody does anything. Then the room bursts into a flurry of movement. More matches are struck, candles lit with panicked speed. As the light increases in strength, Krycek sees the small movements beneath the paper thin skin of Jim's distended abdomen: a violent swell, as if something is moving beneath the surface. Tiny indentations appear, as if little hands are plucking at the flesh, trying to break through. He realises, with detached horror, that he has seen this before.

"Jesus," he hisses through closed teeth. "Mulder, this man is a host."

"Are you sure?"

Krycek thinks he can hear excitement in Mulder's voice, bubbling just below the authoritative tone he adopts at times of crisis. The possibility enrages him; he inhales deeply before he replies, desperate to avoid losing his temper.

"I've seen this before," he replies coldly. "We've got to move. There's no time."

"Are you _sure_?" Mulder asks again. He is on his feet now, moving with clumsy speed and Krycek thinks _You are, you're excited to see this you bastard._ He knows Mulder has seen this process before, however distracted he might have been. There is little excuse for his ghoulish enthusiasm. If Krycek had not been charged with his safe delivery, he would happily leave him here to be devoured, but even in his anger he knows he has a job to do.

"Mulder, I'm not fucking around," he says, his voice almost a growl. "We have maybe a minute. After that, whatever happens to you is your own damn problem."

"What's going on?" Leigh asks. She is ignored; Mulder is visibly torn between his own safety and the chance to learn a little bit more, to come a little closer to the truth. Rivulets of bright red start to dribble from Jim's contracting abdomen, and Leigh lets out an almost comical squeak at the sight of it, clasping her hands to her mouth as if to keep the sound in. Her eyes are so large they are almost distended.

"Sylvia. We have to go," Mulder commands, but Sylvia is transfixed. It is as if there is nothing in the world but her and the dead man and the convulsing, flailing thing trapped inside his torso. Krycek shakes his head and makes for the door, backing up with his gun trained carefully on Jim. He tells himself he will not hesitate to blow it to pieces, research potential be damned. Leigh and Mike follow nervously.

Mulder reaches a hand out to grab Sylvia's shoulder. Without warning, Jim's body jerks a foot in the air, his spine arching at a crazy angle. Mulder leaps back as the body lands with a wet thump on the bench. The head lolls bonelessly, dead eyes wide open and imploring. Sylvia has barely registered this new movement when the thing emerges, unheralded except by the agonising fanfare of torn, wet flesh and the soft spatter of still-warm blood.

"Mulder!" Krycek yells. Leigh and Mike have already made a frantic run for the exit. He lingers for a moment, although he is unimpressed with the creature; compared to those he has seen already, it is a poor specimen. The alien, now free of its prison, stretches out to its full height; in the chiaroscuro of candlelight, it is truly ugly, a misshapen thing neither humanoid nor unique in design, with skin like old leather. It is coated in blood so dark it looks blue in the dim light. It rears up, emitting an indignant squeal like a cornered animal, and lashes out with one razor-clawed limb. Mulder leaps away just as the claws make vicious contact with Sylvia's neck. Her head snaps backwards like a ragdoll, a burst of bright blood exploding outwards like a firework.

"What the hell are you doing?" Krycek is disgusted by the desperation in his voice. Every instinct tells him to leave Mulder behind, that if he is stupid enough to put himself in the path of something so primal and predatory then evisceration is the least he deserves. And yet he can't bring himself to be so callous. He chides himself angrily for being so goddamn soft as he lines up his shot.

The alien pulls back one arm, a tortuously slow movement. The hand is tipped with long sickle-shaped claws, shimmering with blood and torn membrane. It swipes clumsily at Mulder. hHHe JHeHeHeH He ducks out of its path, his features twisted into a grotesque mask of comical surprise. The alien regards him with great black eyes, set deep in its bulbous skull, empty and insentient. The mouth is a black slash crammed with needlelike teeth.

Its limbs flex as if to pounce. Mulder pulls ineffectually at Sylvia's blouse; she lolls to one side, struggling for breath. He yells in frustration, running backwards, his feet sliding on the spilt blood. Krycek holds his breath as he fires, aiming for the head; in an instant, the skull bursts like a watermelon. Black liquid cascades with strange grace into the air.

"Go," Krycek commands. Mulder nods, ushering Leigh and Mike to the door.

He moves slowly towards Sylvia. The black liquid is already gathering and forming on the floor, each pool squirming blindly towards the other. Krycek snatches the matchbox from the ground, transferring the box to his prosthetic hand. The edges of the box fit neatly between the thumb and forefinger. He lights a cluster of matches, throwing them at the blankets and gauze still tangled around Jim's hollow body. They catch light with a gentle whoosh. The flame moves fast, gobbling up swathes of cloth. As Krycek walks slowly backwards, shielding his eyes against the glare, the fire has already started to burn into Sylvia's hair. The black oil shies away from the flames, writhing as if agitated, as if it knows it has lost.

He smiles triumphantly as the library is slowly consumed.

Mulder shoots Krycek an exasperated look as he climbs into the passenger seat. "What took you so long?"

Krycek does not reply. In the back of the car, Leigh is crying, her high-pitched keening audible even over the sputtering roar of the engine. Mike makes no attempt to comfort her, staring shell-shocked at the library. The windows glow a flickering orange.

The first light of dawn is on the horizon, turning the sky a sick yellow-purple. The car is running almost on empty and will not get them much further than the next town. Mulder puts his foot down, driving as fast as the engine will allow. After a long period of silence tempered only by Leigh's relentless whining, Mike speaks.

"You let her burn to death." His voice is a monotone, and heavily accented with what sounds like Scottish. Krycek looks up at his reflection in the rear view mirror; he looks somewhere between anguished and furious, his features too delicate to be truly threatening.

"I did her a favour," Krycek replies nonchalantly. He sees Mulder give him a sharp look and chooses to ignore him.

"You set her on fucking _fire_," Mike mutters, but Krycek seems to have thrown him somewhat; his anger is impotent against Krycek's indifference. "Some favour."

Krycek turns to face him. "Do you know what would have happened to her if I hadn't?" he asks coldly. It is a genuine question. Mike responds with blank helplessness, his eyes wide and unblinking.

"The alien's blood is a viral agent," Mulder says. Krycek raises an eyebrow. Clearly, Mulder had known about this, but to hear him speak of it so coldly and clinically is unusual. "It uses the human body as an incubator. What you witnessed in there is the end stage of that gestation."

Mike looks horrified. Leigh, whimpering next to him, seems oblivious to the conversation. Her face is a pink puffy balloon streaked with tears.

"Burn the host, burn the oil. Stop the process before it starts." Krycek settles back in his seat. He is already tired of the conversation. A dull ache is forming in the gnarled stump of his arm. He rubs at the remainder of his bicep, feeling the atrophied muscle like a worn old cord beneath the skin.

"She was a good person," Mike says quietly. "She didn't deserve that."

"Realistically, Mike, with those injuries, we couldn't have helped her," Mulder says gently. The car chooses this moment to grind to a halt, slowing to an unsteady stop. The road either side of them is lined with tall trees. Just visible through the foliage is the angry red glare of the sun, crawling lazily into the sky. Mulder slams the steering wheel with both hands. "And now we're out of goddamn gas," he says, sinking down into the seat.

"So we find a new car," Krycek shrugs. He steps out of the car and into the first pangs of New Jersey winter. The cold air hits him like a fist in the stomach and he exhales a white cloud. The fingers on his remaining hand are beginning to sting. He shivers involuntarily.

Mulder slams the door. "You know any good dealerships? Ones that stay open post-apocalypse?" He sounds almost light-hearted. Krycek watches him with suspicion as he walks a little way up the road.

"No. But I can hotwire." He glances at the car. Leigh sits, inert except for a trickle of snot running between her nose and upper lip. Mike is staring back up at him, eerily calm. "What're we going to do with Grumpy and Weepy?" he asks.

Mulder shrugs; he isn't paying attention. "I've driven this route so many times," he says absently, as if dreaming. "And suddenly, I can't remember which road leads where."

Krycek leaves him to his pondering and walks a little way, pushing through sparse foliage. On the other side lies what must have been a quiet cul-de-sac once upon a time. It seems better preserved than most; houses stand mostly upright, although great black holes gape like mouths where walls once stood. Where there had been lovingly landscaped gardens lays a mess of churned earth, scorched in places. There is only one car that has not been destroyed. It is a bright red Plymouth Barracuda, in good condition despite the carnage that surrounds it. It is the kind of car that he can hotwire easily, but he knows he will need Mulder's help; it's an impossible task for a one-armed man.

He heads back to the car. Mike winds down the window, looking at him imploringly. "You can't just leave us here..."

"You're going to slow us down." It is a brutal thing to say, and Mike's face drops as the full impact of the words hit him. His pale blue eyes shimmer with barely repressed tears. Krycek can feel his gaze on him almost as if it were physical, a heavy weight that hangs upon him even as he walks away. He supposes this must be what guilt feels like.

As he approaches Mulder, he inclines his head in the direction of the cul-de-sac. "There's a car," he says, abrupt. "I need your help to get it moving."

Mulder peers over to the car. "They're not coming?"

It doesn't occur to Krycek to tell the truth; the lie is smooth and simple. "They don't trust us," he says. Then, for effect: "They don't trust me."

The other man does not seem surprised. "Instinct is a powerful thing," he says. "I can't really blame them. It's hard to know who to trust at the best of times."

Krycek is somewhat surprised that Mulder has conceded so easily. He realises then that the lie was an unnecessary kindness; that Mulder would have left Mike and Leigh behind anyway. It is not an attitude he expects from him, a man who built a living on profiling the darkest parts of the human psyche, to prevent those under its thrall from unleashing their madness on others. It is as if his sole purpose now is to get to Scully, the world be damned. In some ways, he can almost identify with that compulsion.

He turns to Mulder. There are loose dark circles beneath tired eyes, a two-day growth of unchecked stubble pinpricking his cheeks. His hair sticks wildly out from around his face. He looks exhausted, and lost, and alone.

He notices Krycek's critical expression. "Not everyone is as vain as you," he says, mock-seriously. Then he sighs, rubbing his cheek with one hand. "Anyway, I'm fine." He sounds almost as if he is trying to convince himself.

"You'd better be." Krycek looks ahead, towards New York and the distance they have left to cover. "I can't imagine it's going to get any easier."

_One month earlier_

_New York City_

The coffee shop is a nondescript, run-down establishment, the kind where the patrons stare balefully into their drinks and avoid all conversation. Skinner sits opposite Krycek, who sips hot chocolate slowly from a blue paper cup.

"You have business for me?" Krycek asks. He is dressed in a black sweater and blue jeans and, save for the prosthetic limb resting rigidly on the table, looks unexceptional surrounded by the New York bustle.

"You know the situation." Skinner mumbles, feeling acutely uncomfortable - not least because there is nobody else in the coffee shop who 'knows the situation'. There is some small part of him that wants to leap up onto the table and tell everyone to run for their damn lives, but he remains pragmatic; with only a handwritten note as evidence, very few would believe him. "I sure as hell don't trust you, Krycek. But you're the only capable person left."

Krycek grins mirthlessly at this small flattery. For the umpteenth time, Skinner finds himself questioning his own sanity. The situation is desperate; he has a small number of agents he can rely on to do the paperwork, take civilians underground and take up arms if the situation warrants, but nobody who knows the intricacies of what they're facing like Mulder does, and there is the danger: if Mulder is killed, what he knows dies with him.

Alex Krycek. A man with nine lives who must, by now, be down to his last one. A man who kills without discrimination, displays almost impossible endurance and knows nearly as much about the alien threat as Mulder does. A perfect man for the job, Skinner thinks wryly, were he not also a shameless sociopath. And yet he is the only card left to play.

"Make me an offer," Krycek instructs, as if it is the most normal thing in the world, to be bartering over his services. He speaks with customary arrogance, staring at him unblinkingly as if to say _'Your move'._

"I can personally guarantee you will be first in line for vaccination."

Krycek shakes his head. His expression is cold and hard and Skinner's heart sinks low into his stomach as he realises how difficult it is going to be to secure this man's assistance. That he has to bargain with him at all seems the most terrible indignity.

"I was vaccinated long before you even had the technology, old man."

Skinner grits his teeth, struggling to keep a hold on his poker face. He does not know if Krycek is bluffing; stories of a Russian vaccine have been bandied about, but nobody has been able to substantiate the rumours. "You're assuming the vaccine they gave you is effective."

He sips casually from his drink. "I personally oversaw the testing," he says. "It works."

A thin waitress with wispy black hair and makeup that appears to have been applied with a trowel stops by their table. "Anything I can get you?" She has a notepad in one hand and an expression which suggests she is not in the least bit interested in what they want.

"We're fine, thank you." Krycek flashes her a smile; it is so palpably false that Skinner is amazed when she reddens at the cheeks and the corners of her mouth lift slightly. He has never found Krycek charming. Even in Krycek's days at the Bureau he had seen something a little bit malevolent in him, something dangerous about his smile.

As the waitress leaves, Skinner tries a different tactic. "Okay, Krycek. Enough bullshit. You agreed to come here because there something you want from me. What is it?"

Krycek leans forward, his arm parallel with the prosthetic. "Information," he says.

Skinner shakes his head. "If there's anything you don't already know, I'm not going to be the one who discloses it."

"That seems unfair," Krycek replies. "I _did_ go to the trouble of telling Mulder the date of invasion. The least you can do in return is answer a couple of very simple questions."

He feels a small triumph in having correctly guessed Krycek to have been the source; it is very much his style, leaving cryptic little notes lying around for Mulder to find. Skinner feels vindicated in having called him here. "Depends on what you're asking."

"I want to know why you've sent Scully ahead."

Skinner raises his eyebrows. Short of camping outside Scully's apartment, there is no way Krycek can have come by this information. This man has proven extremely difficult to contact, and now it seems as if he has been hiding in plain sight the whole time.

"Her own safety. Next question."

"No, no." He wags his finger like a parent admonishing a child. "That's not a reason. Scully isn't your average damsel in distress. It's something else. What is it?"

He grins with the easy confidence of a man who knows he has the advantage. They stare at each other, each defying the other to back down. There is, of course, a reason why Skinner has insisted that Scully go while the journey is still a safe one, and it is knowledge that he has promised Mulder will remain secret.

"It's none of your goddamn business." Skinner tells him finally in a low, warning voice. "You do what I've asked you and maybe you'll find out when you get there."

He is still smiling, a flash of white teeth like a fox moving in for the kill. "That's assuming you don't arrange for the welcoming party to put a bullet in my head," he replies.

"You deserve nothing less." The words escape before he has time to think of the consequences. Krycek's smile broadens. He stares triumphantly at Skinner, as if pleased with the response.

"Okay." He leans back in his seat. "I want immunity. I want a promise that I won't be dragged out and shot when I've outlived my usefulness. And then I want the truth."

Skinner grimaces involuntarily. "I'll see what I can do."

"And if you even think of reneging on the deal..." Krycek's eyes are hard, cold flecks of malachite, and the obvious glee in his words is enough to make Skinner wish, for the millionth time, that he had any other choice but this. "...I will personally see to it that your messiah doesn't set foot in Canada."

"I should have killed you." Skinner leans forward, teeth bared in an unconscious display of aggression. He speaks almost in a whisper, the words forced from the back of his throat. "I should have put a damn bullet between your eyes long before now."

Krycek gets to his feet. The prosthetic swings as he stands, coming to rest against his hip. The faint outline of a handgun is just visible beneath the tired black leather of his coat. "Fortunate that you didn't," he says, fishing a crumpled dollar bill out from the pocket of his jeans and placing it on the table, a curious formality in such a situation. "Or you'd really be screwed."

The drive from New Jersey into New York proves painfully slow going. The roads are in terrible condition and the smooth speed of Baltimore is a mere memory now. Krycek manoeuvres expertly around gaping potholes, savouring the irony of driving a bona fide pony car at such an absurdly slow speed.

It is not until they are past Jersey City that he looks up at the horizon. It is then that he notices it. At first, he assumes that sleeplessness and a fierce hunger have created a particularly elaborate hallucination, a three-dimensional mirage hanging soundlessly over Ellis Island. He does not stop driving until they emerge from the other end of the curiously immaculate, empty Holland Tunnel and realises that the mirage is very much still there.

He pulls the car to an abrupt halt, jolting Mulder violently out of his daze.

"Would you look at that?" Krycek murmurs, almost reverent. From the shelter of the Plymouth he feels strangely detached from the scene laid out before him – a wounded city left to die, fractured and still smouldering and atop it, casting a flat triangle of shadow across the ruins, the very same spaceship Krycek had been locked with in Silo 1013.

He is only guessing that it is the same one, but he had spent countless hours in the silo tracing the patterns carved into the hull, memorising the smooth coils and sharp angles as if they were Braille, and he sees the same blueprint cast in grey before him. Out in the cold winter sunshine the ship seems much larger, as if the consuming darkness of the silo had diminished it somehow.

"It's just...hanging there," Mulder says in a low voice.

The air is still, and the eerie silence they have grown accustomed to since the world stopped is broken by a soft humming sound, almost inaudible. Krycek opens the car door and steps out into the deserted street, scouting for any signs of danger.

It quickly becomes apparent that they will not be able to take the Plymouth much further. The end of West Street is blocked by a wall of debris; smashed bricks bleeding dust, neon signs twisted and still sparking. A cold wind sends a grocery bag spinning into the air like a red striped ghost. Fragments of glass sparkle on the tarmac. The sheer ugliness of it is compelling.

"So this is where they hang out," Krycek says in a low voice. It feels strange and somehow unsatisfactory; their fear of the unseen alien threat manifested so physically. The low, meditative hum of the ship is underwhelming. He does not really know what he had expected to find, but this is certainly not it.

"One base of many," Mulder muses. "Seems like they've been doing their geography homework. They've shacked up in all the major cities."

Krycek nods. He is not paying attention; he looks off in the opposite direction, away from the ship and towards Central Park. He finds himself wondering what it must look like now. He has faint memories of hot summer afternoons dozing by the lake, blending in unobtrusively in among the hundreds of New Yorkers. It does not sadden him at all to think that both the park and those New Yorkers have probably gone the way of the dinosaur.

He hasn't explained to Mulder why he has taken this small detour, and Mulder has not asked, preferring instead to use Krycek's time at the wheel to catch up on lost sleep. "Mulder," he says.

Mulder grunts a response. He crouches, sifting idly through the detritus at his feet. He holds up an old soda can in one hand, staring at it with comical reverence.

"I have to go somewhere. I won't be long. I don't need the car."

Mulder turns to face him, raising an eyebrow. "How far?"

Krycek consults his mental map of the city. "Not far."

Mulder looks irritated at Krycek's deliberate evasiveness. He must wonder, Krycek thinks, what he could possibly want with this crumbled mess of a city. The Consortium is long gone, just a faint spectre in a city of ghosts. The conspiracies of the past have been dismantled, no power left to be gained from holding on to them.

"What's so important?" he asks, his voice faint as Krycek walks down 11th Avenue. Clouds of dust bloom as he walks, debris tangling with his boots. Here and there, he notices the faint spectres of bloodstains pooled out on the concrete, faded maroon against the dusty grey asphalt. There are no bodies. Although he has never been remotely squeamish, he is suddenly glad of the fact.

Krycek picks his way through piles of mouldering concrete. He stops outside the apartment block. From the front, it seems like nothing ever happened, except for the possessions littering the pavement, a scattering of personal effects lying forlorn and forgotten.

He stops, staring blankly at the ruined awning, at the smashed windows and the debris piled up in the entry hall. There are no signs of life. He had not truly expected there to be. Anyone who had not been killed or captured would be in hiding, and not out here, in plain sight.

Krycek kicks at debris, clearing a path with the toe of his boot. Glass crackles noisily beneath his feet. The hallway leading in to the building is a mess of peeling wallpaper. The weak sunlight filters in part-way before petering out into darkness. He has only been here in the dark of winter, with the sickly yellow glow of the street-lamps illuminating the way.

He ascends the stairs, preternaturally aware of his own footsteps. The oppressive silence is so thick it feels almost physical. Most of the apartments had seemingly been abandoned in haste, their doors left carelessly ajar. Their interiors are tableaux of panic; furniture upended, clothes strewn across the floor. In one apartment, a child's doll sits grinning on a kitchen chair, standing guard over the empty room. It silently tracks his movements with dead, still eyes.

Marita's door is closed. He had expected as much; she had always been a devil for detail. He imagines her, hair immaculate, clothes carefully pressed, checking the locks for the third time as the other residents panicked around her, clutching holdalls stuffed with the things they couldn't bear to leave behind, useless now.

It takes three hard kicks to open the door. He enters the apartment. The curtains are drawn, a little light trickling in through the gaps. A thin grey film of dust coats the furniture like a skin.

He is no longer sure what he has come here for. He had needed to get away from Mulder for a while, and this had seemed like the ideal place, but as he looks around, taking in the full extent of the emptiness, and of the creeping sadness festering like a sickness in the pit of his stomach, he feels desperately stupid for thinking it might bring some reprieve.

Krycek walks over to Marita's bookcase, running his fingers over the expensive first editions of books she had never read, the leather thick with dust. It seems that she had not taken very much with her; all her trinkets and possessions are still carefully in place, her house in perfect order. It looks like a show home; a perfectly arranged illusion of domesticity. A corner of normality in a world in complete disarray.

"You old romantic."

Lightning fast, Krycek pivots on his feet, gripping his gun with white knuckles. "Fuck," he hisses, exhaling through clenched teeth. Mulder stands in the doorway, smirking.

"Bastard," Krycek feels his heart hammering in his chest. He slowly replaces the gun in his belt buckle, too pissed off to look Mulder in the eye. "Why the hell are you here?"

Mulder shrugs, infuriatingly nonchalant. "I followed you. I could ask you the same question."

"You had no business following me," Krycek responds coldly.

"You know it's not safe." Mulder inclines his head towards the window. "There's a damn space ship ten minutes away, Krycek, what the hell made you think it was a good idea to go off alone?"

He opens his mouth to reply, but finds himself at a loss for words. It _had_ been a stupid idea. So far, they have skimmed the major cities, keeping a low profile. To stop in the centre of New York and run off alone, without having even the most cursory idea of the potential risks...

"I'm not a child, Mulder," he mutters, painfully aware of how sulky he must sound. He relaxes his posture and turns back to Marita's bookcase. He hears Mulder moving through the room behind him.

"You didn't think she'd be here, did you?" Mulder asks.

"No." It's only half a lie; Krycek had expected Marita to be long gone, run away to Canada if she was smart, lying dead beneath the rubble if she wasn't. Despite his pragmatism, though, he knows it was a spark of irrationality that led him here, seeking the comfort of a familiar face. One who isn't half crazy like Mulder.

Mulder runs an experimental finger across the dust-covered counter, looking with interest at the pictures of Marita and her sister on the wall. Krycek knows Mulder has been here before. He had been handcuffed to the wheel of his car at the time, silently planning ways to get back at the bastard. Krycek has never considered himself a jealous man, and doesn't recall ever feeling particularly attached to Marita but he had felt distinctly uneasy the whole time Mulder had been gone. The same uneasiness he feels now, watching Mulder place indiscriminate hands over Marita's things.

"Why did you come here, then?" There is no malice in Mulder's tone; he sounds genuinely curious.

Krycek does not reply. He has no answer. A small, stupid part of him had hoped he would find some clue, maybe a note. He feels faintly ridiculous. The apartment is like the Mary Celeste, abandoned but pristine. Wherever Marita has gone, she had not thought that anyone would come looking for her.

"Let's go." Krycek walks past Mulder, who is flicking through a hardcover book left on the coffee table. He disappears into the hallway, his footsteps echoing off the marble.

Mulder lets him go. Inside the book, marking a black-and-white picture of the Guggenheim, is a small square of glossy paper. He prises it gently from between the pages. And then he chuckles quietly to himself, slipping it into his pocket. Somehow, Marita has managed what the police, homeland security, even the goddamn FBI never had. She owns a photograph of Alex Krycek.

By the time Mulder returns to the car, Krycek is already sitting in the front seat, rifling through the glovebox in search of food.

"I hate candy," he mutters. Before leaving Princeton, they had raided an abandoned grocery store for anything that had not already gone green. There is a stash of candy in the glovebox and soda on the back seat. Krycek produces a Twinkie. He peels the wrapper back gingerly, mentally debating the relative merits of persistent hunger versus stale confectionery.

"Twinkies aren't technically candy." Mulder wrestles for a moment with the door. It has started to rain again. Fat drops splash noisily on the glass. Across the choppy grey water, the ship hangs in mid-air, held in place by some unknown force. Its shadow has grown elongated and misshapen by the travelling sun and stretches out, a distorted black shape on the water like a finger smudge.

Krycek raises an unimpressed eyebrow. He clutches the Twinkie in his hand, holding it almost at arm's length as if disgusted by it. "We'll have to go through the city on foot. Pick up another car on the way."

He peers out of the streaming window. He has no idea how long it will be before night falls, and even less of an idea how far out the roads are blocked. He does not relish the idea of being stuck in New York when dusk falls with no vehicle to speed them out of trouble.

"We better move fast." Mulder says.

Krycek nods. Mulder grabs his holdall from the back seat and the plastic bag full of soda cans. Krycek zips his jacket to the throat. The rain hits him like a handful of pennies, heavy drops stinging his skin. He winces involuntarily. "Shelter might be a good idea," Krycek says, raising his voice over the hiss of the downpour.

Mulder gives him a thumbs-up. They run towards the nearest building, heads bowed. Puddles are already forming in the furrows and potholes.

They shelter beneath a green-and-white striped awning, hanging haphazardly from the doorway of a former grocery store. The rain sluices off the plastic and spatters to the ground. New York has all but disappeared in a haze of water but the ship is still visible, an indistinct black shape in the distance.

"I never cared much for New York," Mulder says conversationally, as if discussing a restaurant or a holiday destination. He squints into the far distance, his dark eyes tracking movements Krycek cannot see. It occurs to him that Mulder might actually be even more paranoid than he is.

He grunts a response. Most of his memories of New York are a blur of crystal meth, of tequila and mescaline. He had been young and reckless and blessed with the ability to get astonishingly fucked up and wake the next morning without so much as a dry mouth. That had disappeared with his appointment to the Bureau, along with the desire for long, messy nights strung out on narcotics. He had started to take his life seriously. _And that_, he tells himself bitterly _worked out just famously for you, didn't it?_

From the corner of his eye, he sees Mulder fish something from his pocket. He turns, briefly interested. Mulder appears to be struggling against a smile, his eyes glinting with mirth as he passes the object to Krycek.

He turns it over. His eyes widen first in shock, then darken in anger. "Is this a fucking joke?" he demands, holding it up.

"Marita's apartment," Mulder tells him. The smile evaporates, replaced by a thin-lipped puzzlement. Krycek opens his mouth to curse at him but the words catch in his throat. He swallows them down, exhaling slowly, feeling the anger heavy in his chest.

The picture is not very old. He is dressed in a black t-shirt, his dark hair cropped close to his head. He doesn't remember ever seeing it before. Marita must have taken it on the sly, kept it without his knowing. He stares at it a while longer, looking with detached curiosity at the stranger in the photograph, that man with two arms and the ghost of a smile about his lips. He barely recognises it as himself. Krycek mutters some Slavic obscenity, letting the picture fall to the floor.

"I thought it was quite flattering," Mulder says.

Krycek glares at him. The photo flutters out into the rain, carried on a strong breeze. He had never thought of Marita as sentimental, much less as being at all invested in him personally. It frightens him a little to think of her that way. It frightens him more to think that, had circumstances been different, he might have been pleased.

_This is what happened._

_It began in the middle of November. The bees came. At first it seemed benign. Unseasonable, certainly, but strange things happen with regularity in New York these days. _

_But things quickly started to fall apart after that. The bees were aggressive. They chased and pounced like a single entity, hundreds of them like black clouds descending. Even I was stung a few times, despite being very careful. But as I watched the people around me fall to the floor, convulsing and swelling up like sponges, I felt not even the mildest of fevers. The bees died too, after serving their one purpose._

_It didn't occur to me that this might be it- the violent build-up to apocalypse. That realisation came a few days later, when I saw one of the juveniles burst from the abdomen of a teenage girl. She had died holding a Starbucks cup. The drink had spilled down her blouse. I suppose it scarcely mattered by that point. She popped like a burst blister. It ran howling down the street on unsteady legs._

_I packed a suitcase. I don't know why. It wasn't as if I'd need stockings and power shoulders where I was going, but it was a routine and it was comforting. I knew I was immune, and I knew in some abstract way that I should be grateful to those bastards, because without their barbarism and their tests I would probably be incubating one of those awful things too._

_It wasn't hard to get to Canada, not really. The ships came later. I saw them descend upon New York from a distance like vultures. The ground shook with the force of the explosions. I drove at a ridiculous speed, too fast. I remember thinking that I could outrun the end of the world if only I drove fast enough. _

_I know New York has probably been destroyed. The roads were empty. I suppose nobody else had thought to escape. Where do you go? I headed for Canada because it was well-practised instinct. The bunker in Newfoundland. Before I was a guinea pig, I was as much a part of the conspiracy as you or Mulder. For those left in New York, the ones who had barricaded themselves inside, away from the bees, all that remained was to wait for the buildings to fall, for the apocalypse to swallow them whole._

They drive mostly in silence, with Mulder occasionally bursting into subdued, tuneless song. After trudging through the eerie emptiness of New York for hours neither of them has the stomach for conversation. It is not until they are deep into Maine that they stop driving again. Krycek sleeps stretched out on the back seat, exhausted beyond reason and yet unable to switch off; every little sound jolts him sharply out of sleep.

They stop by a lake somewhere out in the sticks. The trees at the waterside are despondent, spiky clusters of brown leaves reflecting miserably in the black water. The air is cold and still, and thin sheets of ice crackle beneath the tyres as they drive off-road. Despite the inhospitable temperatures, it is the first place they have driven through that still seems normal.

Krycek stretches, his tendons popping as he flexes his limbs. After the dust-choked air of New York, the chill wind is almost a relief. He inhales slowly, feeling the cold deep in his lungs, prickling at his nerves. The air tastes clean and sharp.

Mulder is sitting on a tree stump. He holds his head in his hands. Long fingers rub gently at his forehead. His shoulder slump, his spine sagging as if he is suddenly finding it difficult to stay upright.

"I should have warned them," he says. His voice is flat. His fingers dig into his wan flesh.

"You couldn't have." For once, it's the truth.

"But I could have tried." Mulder throws his hands in the air. His eyes are red, his mouth set in a thin, defiant line. There are pink indentations in his cheeks where his fingers have been, small circles of livid colour in his grey skin. "It's not as if it could have done any more harm..."

"Best case scenario would have been mass hysteria." Krycek peers across at the lake. The sun hangs low and unsteady in the sky, half smothered by fat black clouds. It looks like rain again. The thought no longer surprises him. "Thousands of people climbing over one another to escape, but with nowhere to escape to. And then the bees would have come, and they would have died anyway."

"They should have known," Mulder says resolutely. His head sinks back down into his hands, and a strange moan emanates from the back of his throat, an animal sound. Krycek shifts his weight from one foot to the other, feeling the chill grass stiff beneath his feet. There is something alarming about Mulder's sudden despondence.

"I'm sure they'd all have been grateful for news of their demise in advance," Krycek deadpans.

Mulder suddenly gets to his feet. "You survived," he says bitterly. He stands with his fists clenched, a strangely childish gesture. "You always do."

"I'm better informed than most." Mulder;s sudden mood swing is perplexing; it is as if being confronted with the state of the world has triggered something inside him. As if his perception has changed now he has been forced to acknowledge the hard reality. It seems odd to Krycek, who wonders what Mulder had been expecting to see.

"See, I've been thinking." There is a coldness to Mulder's voice that had not been there previously. "It's all very convenient, isn't it? You knowing exactly when to go underground and everything."

"As I said, I'm well informed." He turns to face Mulder, who is staring at him with unblinking, red-rimmed eyes. His mouth is twisted into a peculiar scowl. He stands as if all his muscles are ready to snap. Krycek feels panic sprout deep in his stomach.

"Very well informed," Mulder agrees. "It was nice of you to pass the information along, Krycek. I just wish you'd used a slightly better medium than a Taco Bell napkin."

He smirks. There's a strange relief in being figured out, a simplicity in being permanently disliked. There is no weight of expectation, nothing to live up to. "Next time, I'll take out a full page ad." He knows he is pulling Mulder's strings but it has been two long days on the road, stuck in a rattling tin can, and the claustrophobia has not increased his liking of the other man one bit.

Mulder visibly grits his teeth. "Who told you?"

"None of your damn business." The words are scarcely in the air when he feels a burst of blinding pain explode in his jaw. His teeth clamp down on his tongue and he stumbles backwards, falling gracelessly on his side. He tastes the sour tang of blood as it runs down his chin. Krycek fumbles for his gun but realises that Mulder has already taken it. He watches in horror as the pistol sails through the air, landing with an undramatic plop in the lake.

"Alright, Krycek." Mulder grabs the collar of his jacket. His strength is surprising; Krycek feels his feet leave the ground for a few seconds, his jacket straining uselessly against Mulder's iron grip. For a second they are face to face. Krycek can see his own reflection in the other man's irises. The blood stains his lips and chin like an animal caught at a kill. "Start talking."

"It's none of your fucking business!" Krycek yells, but his tongue won't cooperate and it comes out a garbled, nonsensical mess. He spits a glob of bright blood into the grass. Mulder grimaces. He releases his grip on the jacket. Krycek falls back to the ground, landing flat on his back. He thinks about making a run for the car but Mulder has already grabbed his own gun. The barrel stares down at him, black and hollow. Reluctantly, he relaxes his limbs. The game is up.

"Answers. Now." Mulder waves the gun as if to punctuate his words. "Who told you about the invasion?" He plants his right foot into the centre of Krycek's chest. The air escapes from Krycek's lungs in one painful wheeze, spraying a fine mist of blood into the air.

"I made a deal," he gasps. The force of Mulder's boot against his sternum is unbearable. He claws ineffectually at the leather with his fingers.

"With who?" Mulder pushes his foot down. Krycek howls in pain and frustration, squirming futilely against his weight. His lungs burn with airless pressure.

"Get...your fuh...fucking FOOT...off me!" Each word takes a gargantuan effort. It is undignified, made worse in knowing how much Mulder must be enjoying it. Finally he relents; the first panicked gulp of air stings as if he has swallowed pins.

Krycek scrambles into a sitting position, ignoring the strident protests from his bruised sternum. He scowls up at Mulder, who towers above him, still holding his gun. He wipes the blood from his chin. His lacerated tongue has begun to ache.

"I have a contact..." he says resentfully. Mulder rolls his eyes and opens his mouth to speak, but Krycek interrupts him. "A go-between. The colonists use him to contact me. Used to work for Smokey until things went wrong."

"The colonists." Mulder's eyes widen almost to dinner-plate proportions. He momentarily falters; at any other time, Krycek would have seized upon such a moment, but the game is up and he lacks the will.

"I'm all that's left," Krycek says, by way of explanation. "They need me on their side. I'm immune. I'm a threat to their operation, left to my own devices."

"And are you on their side?" It is a perfectly reasonable question, given the circumstances. Mulder has gone from incredulity to hard-eyed anger in the space of a few seconds, as if the gravity of Krycek's admission has finally hit him. As if he is disappointed in himself for ever trusting him.

Krycek snorts, dismissive. "If I were, don't you think you'd be dead by now?"

"Then maybe you'd better explain it to me, Krycek." The gun wavers. Every instinct screams at him to grab the gun and make a run for it. He resists. To run away at this juncture would be immeasurably foolish after all that has gone before.

"I made a deal," he says again. He pauses to spit; his mouth tastes unpleasantly of iron. "They wanted me to make sure the first phase went ahead as planned. It was easy. I didn't even have to do anything, really, just make sure the bees were released."

"And you went along with it?"

"For a price, yes." Mulder's face is a mask of naked horror and pure, undiluted anger. It is the look of a man who cannot quite believe what he is hearing. Krycek continues, his voice eerily calm. "I asked them for immunity."

"Of course you did." His tone is careful, measured. "Of course you did, you rat bastard. It doesn't matter if the whole damn _world_ goes to hell. As long as you're fine."

"Wait a minute..." Krycek holds out a single finger in a 'shush' gesture, but Mulder does not comply. He swipes out and grabs Krycek's hand, clutching the wrist. One hand grabs hold of his index finger and bends it backwards. The pain is immediate and intense; Krycek lets out an undignified scream as the bone snaps with a dull pop.

"Do you know how many people died?" Mulder snarls, his mouth so close to Krycek's ear that the words are almost indecipherable. He holds the broken finger in his curled fist. Krycek struggles against his grip. He whimpers uncontrollably. "Do you have any goddamn _idea_?"

"You didn't let me finish..." Krycek hisses. He clenches his teeth; his bruised jaw throbs violently. He stares balefully at Mulder. "The immunity wasn't for me. Christ, Mulder, I'm already immune. It was for you and Scully."

Mulder recoils, as if he has been punched full in the gut. He releases Krycek's hand, stumbling to his feet. "Why?"

Krycek raises his prosthetic protectively across his injured hand. The plastic limb is smeared with bright blood. "You're not stupid, Mulder. You know why."

The look he gives him suggests that he does. His motives, for once, are not shrouded in careful secrecy, or hidden behind bombastic threats. As Krycek examines his broken digit, assessing the best way to set it, Mulder begins pacing in short, sharp half-circles, the totality of Krycek's bargain buzzing discordantly in his brain.

"This is the only way." Krycek tells him. "There was always going to be collateral damage. But if you survive, we stand a chance of resisting." He slowly gets to his feet. A wave of dizziness washes over him, temporarily greying his vision. He perseveres. "If you had died...if I hadn't bargained for your life...there would only be me. And I'm no hero."

"No." Mulder agrees vaguely. He is looking past Krycek and into the lake, squinting in the reflected red glow. He looks lost in a dream.

"You were already immune to the virus carried by the bees." The grey is receding out to the edges. The worst of the dizziness is past; in its place is a dull ache radiating out from his jaw like a sunrise. "But you would probably have been killed in the chaos. That's why I had to warn you."

That snaps Mulder out of his reverie; he turns to face him, sneering. "Do I owe you a debt of gratitude now, Krycek?" he asks. In his anger, his voice seems higher pitched, almost mocking.

"You owe me one finished journey." There it is, in the open. Krycek knows how bold a statement it is, but for all his sins, he is the one responsible for Mulder's continued survival, and by extension, the fate of the world. Perhaps it is a testament to his ego that he sees it this way, but there is an undeniable thread of logic at the core of it. He knows Mulder is not so foolhardy to think that Krycek won't renege on his promise of immunity, particularly if he does not agree to his terms. And yet the doubt remains, tugging on his conscious like a dog with a bone.

"And then you disappear, and I never have to suffer your presence again."

Krycek exhales evenly. He nods. "Then I disappear."

Mulder stares at Krycek's remaining hand for a moment. The index finger has turned a sickly purple and has swollen to twice its size, listing at an angle where the joint suddenly separates. It means he can no longer shoot without extreme pain, and while that is probably of no concern to Mulder, he still looks unmistakeably guilty, as if chiding himself for his impulsive act of violence.

"Get in the car, Alex." He sounds defeated, Krycek thinks, and perhaps this unwanted messianic burden is too much even for him to bear.

He does as he is told without a word.

Nova Scotia is a blaze of bright white, the snowfields crisp and untrodden, except by the occasional wild animal. The remains of urban civilisation, visible in the rearview mirror like a tombstone, seem all the more diminished by the sterile expanse. It occurs to Krycek, as they progress down rough-dug roads that fill with fresh snow even as they drive, that this place has been spared by cultivating a climate that even humans find inhospitable. And now, it is their sole saviour. The irony of this does not placate him one bit.

He knows this place. Of course he does; he was one of the privileged few who had been let in on the great secret, the Cancer Man Club, that rotten inner circle of conscienceless creatures searching for the best price at which to sell their world and run away with the proceeds. The bunker in Newfoundland was the very last part of the plan. A place to hide away and plug their ears while the world outside went down screaming and kicking.

It had been the last piece of information he had fed Skinner, a deliberate lifeline for the man who had stubbornly insisted on staying put. He felt no sorrow to think that Skinner was, in all likelihood, a dead man. It was his own damn fault.

"We'll have to walk the rest" Mulder says, pulling the car to a halt. Up ahead, the road peters out into a mess of churned snow and dirt; without the aid of a plough, there is no way they are getting through. Krycek nods his agreement. In the near distance, the North Atlantic Ocean stretches out like a grey ribbon on the horizon. There is not too far to go.

He steps out of the car. A rush of freezing air hits him like a punch. He is pleased with himself for having had the foresight to wear an undershirt, even if it is three days old and stale with constant wear. He appraises himself cursorily in the rear-view mirror as Mulder struggles with his jacket. There is a horrendous black bruise like an inkblot across his jaw, and a sprinkling of light stubble has finally begun to sprout across his chin. Otherwise, he thinks, he looks remarkably together for a man who has not showered or changed clothes in days.

Mulder has not held up so well. His hair is lank and hangs in snow-damp tendrils around his face. There is an abject weariness about him. He holds himself with an obvious lack of pride. Unlike Krycek, he cannot take refuge in arrogance, and the toll of their journey is all too visible.

They trudge silently through the snow. Mulder's refusal to speak to him has gone beyond simple anger and into a weird soup of disappointment, of disgust and sorrow and maybe even a sprinkling of hatred.

Despite himself, Krycek is silently furious. Mulder holds Krycek personally responsible for the deaths of millions. That part he can cope with just fine; he vaguely recalls, from his younger days, a piece of Stalinist doggerel: "_The death of one_ man is a _tragedy_. The death of millions is a statistic". No, what sticks in his throat is his obstinate refusal to acknowledge the _necessity_ of it all. It is as if Mulder thinks he sent those people to their deaths just for the hell of it.

He hates thinking of Mulder as any kind of hero. But that is the world they live in now: Fox Mulder, saviour of mankind, and all it took was an alien super-virus.

"There's the boat." Mulder stops walking. The snow is up to his mid-calves; each step is a struggle. The wind is so cold it burns, and Krycek's broken finger, hastily set with black duct tape, throbs fiercely with a renewed vigour. As he slows to a halt, he sees Mulder slip the gun from his holster and raise it up.

"This is your stop," he says dryly.

"That wasn't the deal," Krycek begins, but Mulder shakes his head.

"Deal's off." Mulder carefully steps backwards, progressing slowly. His legs leave great black holes in the snow. Behind him, the boat bobs silently in the grey water. The thought that he might not be on it is one Krycek is not prepared to entertain.

"No." He feels a wave of hot fear rise in his chest. "No, Mulder, you can't leave me here..."

"You're in no position to bargain with me." Mulder is moving sideways now, stepping at a steady pace. He keeps the gun trained expertly between Krycek's eyes. He does not falter. "Face it, Alex. You sealed your fate when you sent half the world to their deaths."

"No, no!" Krycek blurts. Mulder is fast becoming an indistinct shape in the near distance, leaving a trail of deep imprints as he moves. He makes a panicked dash forward. As he moves, Mulder fires. There is a loud, dry crack; the bullet hits the ground inches from Krycek's left thigh and he leaps back, landing on his side in the freezing snow. He feels his body seize painfully with the shock. He is dimly aware, as he catches his breath, that Mulder is running.

"No!" he yells, scrambling to his feet; he is shivering violently and his voice is tremulous, echoing out over the empty fields. "Mulder, you bastard, you can't leave me here, you can't fucking do this to me!"

But Mulder is running, stumbling through the snowdrifts, a frantic ball of flailing arms and outstretched legs. He is moving too quickly for Krycek to catch up. As he stands with his arm wrapped around his torso, a woefully inadequate attempt to keep in a little warmth, he feels his stomach sink. His lungs burn, and in the back of his mind, he is dimly aware that he can no longer feel his feet.

"Mulder!" he screams. He knows the other man can hear him. In the all-pervasive silence of Nova Scotia, his voice is the only sound. "I'll die out here, Mulder!"

Mulder doesn't even turn around.

Scully is waiting.

At first, Mulder thinks he is imagining it, but as he nears the boat, she comes into focus; her red hair and bright green parka and blue eyes, and she is scrambling down the ladder and onto the shore. And even though his lungs are burning and his eyes are streaming, suddenly the snow seems so much easier to push aside, a mere inconvenience.

He scoops her up into his arms. She is laughing, pressing her cold face to his chest, her arms stretched out around him as far as she can manage. The solid roundness of her pregnancy is tangible now, and as he holds her, kissing her snow-wet hair, he rests one hand on her abdomen.

"You're late," she tells him, covering his hand with her own. She is wearing fleecy grey gloves and the fabric is warm against his chilled skin. Mulder cups her chin gently. She is a mess; her skin is a livid pink, her hair dishevelled, but in this moment he swears he has never seen anything quite so spectacular.

"But I'm here."

She smiles at that, and reaches up to kiss him. He bows his head to meet hers. As he presses against her lips, he realises that he has dropped his gun somewhere along the way. The thought does not alarm him in the slightest.

"Yes," she says, murmuring against his mouth. "You are."

It is not until they are aboard the icebreaker and pulling slowly out of the harbour that Mulder chances a glance back out at the snowfields. He is not at all surprised to see no sign of Krycek.

"What're you looking at?" Scully asks.

He squints into the sterile distance. The car is where he left it, a dark blue blot on the landscape that will undoubtedly be covered by tomorrow. There are no visible prints. It is as if Krycek has disappeared into thin air. And yet there is a quiet certainty somewhere in the corners of his mind that he will see him again, because that is the way things go with Krycek; he is the real X-File here, the man with nine lives. He will vanish into the ether only to reappear, just when he has fallen into the periphery of Mulder's memory, like the ghosts and monsters and mothmen.

He will survive, because it's all he knows how to do.

"Nothing important," Mulder tells her, and she regards him quizzically, but does not say anything; there will be time enough for questions later. Mulder looks up into the sky, empty save for clouds and the occasional bird. The coldest months are yet to come, and they had better start planning, because it will not be winter forever and soon enough the aliens will have amassed the strength to colonise even this frozen corner of the world.

Mulder looks across the sea to Newfoundland and ponders his next move.


End file.
